


Without Fear

by tostadas



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Comic Book Violence, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 14:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tostadas/pseuds/tostadas
Summary: Matt and Karen investigate a mysterious new drug on the streets. Post-Season 3.Daredevil is my favorite show, and the cancellation really pissed me off. Then I saw the outcry from fans and wanted to contribute something. My inspiration for this stems from the “Without Fear” storyline by Ed Brubaker (it is very loosely based on it). Hope you enjoy! #SaveDaredevil





	1. Rain

               "You have to feel for what's not there as much as what is."

               Rain, like braille, is a combination of dots: dots that chill the environment and diminish other sounds. Being acutely aware of the size and shape of every raindrop that hits your body can be distracting. For Daredevil, learning to acclimate and fight in the rain was like learning another discipline of martial arts. On the other hand, rain obstructs an enemy’s vision and makes him slip and fumble. Situations become graver when there’s rain, and gravity invites fear. Good.

               A young bartender leaving work alone one drizzly night made a wrong turn and was flung down in an empty side-street. The would-be rapist was pulling the screaming woman into an alley when a masked man in black appeared and punched him in the face and gut with rope-bound fists. The criminal turned tail and sprinted up a fire escape. The vigilante followed. As soon as Daredevil reached the roof, a knife flew toward him and grazed his side. No harm done. He caught up with the assailant and hit him again, once on the jaw and three times in the ribs. When the criminal spun around to try to kick the masked man, the latter jabbed him in one of his kidneys. He slipped on the wet roof and fell. Daredevil took this pause as an opportunity to better analyze his opponent.

               There was no scent of adrenaline. His heartbeat was quick from physical exertion but steady. There was no sign of panic or agitation. This guy was unlike the average criminal that Daredevil faced, but that didn’t surprise him. He wasn’t the first person to emit these responses in recent weeks.

               “What are you on, and where’d you get it?”

               The assailant crawled several feet to the edge of the roof and sat up a bit, clutching his ribs. He wiped his soaked hair out of his eyes and stared steadily at the vigilante. He took a deep breath but said nothing.

               “Answer me, or your night is about to get a hell of a lot worse.”

               The thug smiled. “Yeah… You’re probably right.” He pushed himself backward and slid head-first off the roof.

               “NO!” Daredevil ran to the edge, but he was too late. Rain spattered over the broken body. The scent of copper and brain tissue wafted up from the puddles.

 

* * *

 

               The staccato of spring rain on the small window was Karen Page’s only company as she hunched over her laptop in the dark back room of Nelson’s Meats. Three small desks were spread as far apart as possible and separated by shelves of charcuterie supplies and ingredients in an attempt to create some semblance of separate offices. For now, this was Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

               “PAGE INVESTIGATIONS” was splashed across the computer screen. Karen had spent the last twenty minutes scrolling through fonts to find the perfect one for her new business’s header. Building her own website was proving to be more work than she presumed, but she needed to get it done as soon as possible. Her newspaper ad wasn’t getting any bites.

               Her phone buzzed on the desk. “Unknown Caller.” Her favorite kind.

               “Hello?”

               “Hi, is this… Page Investigation?”

               Karen perked up. “Yes! Sorry, yes, this is Karen Page. How can I help you?”

               “My name is Joanne Park. I saw your ad online. Can we talk in person?”

               “Of course. When is a good time for you?”

               “I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I wonder… can you meet me now?”

               “Now? Uh, sure. Okay.”

               Half an hour later, Karen entered a mostly-empty diner on the other side of Hell’s Kitchen. She wiped her shoes on the mat, stripped off her wet jacket, and sat at a booth. A middle-aged Asian woman with shoulder-length, graying hair approached. She was probably only in her mid-40s, but the bags under her eyes and her defeated expression gave her the appearance of a much older woman.

               “Are you Ms. Page?”

               “Yes! Ms. Park, I presume?”

               “Yes. It’s nice to meet you.” She sat in the booth opposite Karen. They both ordered coffee and waited for the server to fill their mugs before getting to business.

               “So. Ms. Park, what can Page Investigations do for you?”

               The woman picked at a chip on the handle of her coffee mug. “Well, it’s my son. Tyler. I have not seen him in one week.”

               Karen pulled a notepad and pen out of her purse and started taking notes.

               “He’s twenty years old. My husband died last year. Cancer. It has been so difficult. I work two jobs. Tyler goes to NYU with scholarship, but he lives with me so he can help. He’s a… sweet boy.” Mrs. Park sighed.

               “It’s okay. Take your time. Tell me his activities in recent months if you can.”

               “His grades were dropping. We argue about it a lot. I tell him, ‘If you don’t fix your grades, you will lose your scholarship. And then you will be stuck in Hell’s Kitchen, like your eomma.’ He ignore me. He likes his new friends more than school.”

               “Do you know his friends?”

               “…No.” She hung her head.

               “Did– Does Tyler have a job?”

               “No.”

               “Does he have any identifying markers? Piercings, tattoos…?”

               “Oh, I forgot. Here–” Mrs. Park slid a small photo of her son across the table. Karen studied it. The photo showed a handsome, young man with short, messy, black hair. “He has tattoo on the back of his hand of a Korean _geon_. It is three straight lines that are a symbol for things like ‘father’ and ‘sky.’ He got it in memory of his father.”

               Karen drew three parallel lines on her notepad and held it up. “Like this?”

               Mrs. Park nodded.

               “Okay.” Karen flipped to a fresh page. “Tell me more about his behavior. Any details can help.”

               “Well… I guess, lately he acts… different.”

               “‘Different,’ how?”

               “He was… moody. I mean, more moody than an average college boy.” Mrs. Park gave a small smile. Karen returned one.

               “And not just moody,” Mrs. Park continued. “Also, um, reckless.”

               “Unpredictable?”

               “Yes! Unpredictable.”

               “And this happened all of a sudden?”

               “Yes. It’s not like him. He is good kid. I think his new friends did it. Like maybe they gave him… drug or something?”

               Karen pursed her lips in thought as she took notes. “Do you know his frequent whereabouts?”

               “Lower part of Hell’s Kitchen. I think. That is all I know… I know I’m a– I’m a bad parent.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

               Karen looked up from her notepad. “No, _no_ …” She slowly reached for her hand and cupped it. “You’re not a bad parent. Have you filed a missing-persons report with the NYPD?”

               “Yes. Of course. But you know this city. The police always too busy with murderers and robbers. They don’t have time to look for Tyler. Look, Ms. Page. I’m sorry, I should have told you first… I don’t have a lot of money.”

               Karen put down her notepad and pen and slid them across the table. “Please. Don’t worry about it. I _want_ to help you. Can you please write down your contact information?”

               She jotted down her phone number and home address and passed the notepad and pen back to Karen.

               “Thank you, Mrs. Park. And really, don’t worry about payments right now. Just get some rest and take it easy. I’ll look for Tyler. And I can’t wait to meet him.” She smiled.

               Her new client began sobbing. “Bless you, Ms. P-Page. Thank you s-so much.” She slid out of the booth and hugged Karen, who frowned over her client’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this as much of a Karen story as a Matt story. I love their dynamic and thought that their team-up in season 3 was really fun.


	2. Punjabi

               “I dunno. Italian, I guess.”

               “ _Italian_ , are you _serious_? I thought you were supposed to have refined tastes, Murdock.”

               Karen walked into the temporary office, hung her jacket, unwrapped her scarf, and started unpacking her bag. “What’s on the argument agenda for today, boys?”

               Matt was running his fingers over his mechanical braille display while Foggy leaned against one of the meat racks, clutching some sausages in his hand. He waved them dramatically as if he was giving an impassioned political speech. “Which type of sausage holds up its integrity best when smoked. Matt’s the criminal defense lawyer representing Average Joe, and I’m with the upstanding gourmets who know that andouille is clearly the better choice for smoking.”

               “You hate French things,” Matt muttered.

               “Not French _meats_. They can get one thing right.”

               Matt smiled and continued reading. Karen sat down, opened her laptop, and waited for it to boot up. “It feels like every day we end up talking about meat.”

               “Kind of hard to avoid it here,” Foggy replied, “I mean, look at this place. It’s a veritable heaven. Let’s just call ourselves Nelson and Meat-dock. By the way, did you swing by the post office on your way here?”

               Karen glared at him. “Why would you assume that I did that? That’s N-and-M business.”

               “Oh, come on. We’re all in this together.”

               “I’m not your secretary anymore, Foggy.” She paused for a moment. “But yes, I did.” She pulled a small stack of envelopes from her purse and handed it over. Foggy took it with gusto and gave Karen a cheeky grin. She rolled her eyes. “Okay, _okay_ , but that’s the _last_ time I do secretarial things for you! You need to hire someone else.”

               “No can do, Page. If we bring another woman in here, you two will destroy this place fighting over me.”

               “I’m going to ignore how sexist that statement was.”

               “Good plan! I’m going back to work.” Foggy sat in his chair, spun it around, and started sorting through the mail.

               Karen yawned and rubbed the corners of her eyes. After her meeting with Mrs. Park the night before, she went home and dove into Internet research. The search kept her up until 2 AM, but she came up empty. There was no time to waste; better switch tactics. She picked up her cellphone and scrolled through her contacts. She stopped and stared at “Mitchell Ellison” for a few seconds. Wrong play. She needed to distance herself from _The New York Bulletin_ , and Ellison wouldn’t leak any developing stories to her anyway. She scrolled down farther. “Trish Walker.” She paused with her finger hovered over the “Call” button, glanced up at Matt, and thoughtfully chewed her lip. “Message.” It was unprofessional to text Trish out of the blue; after all, Karen didn’t really know her that well. But she also couldn’t discuss the case aloud. Even if she went outside with the phone, Matt could still eavesdrop on their conversation. He’d think the job was too dangerous, and the last thing she needed in her first case was for him to get involved.

               – _Hi, Trish. I was wondering if you could help me with something?_

               She was laying her phone on the desk when the screen indicated that Trish was already responding.

               – _Hey! What do you need?_

               – _I’ve got a client from Hell’s Kitchen who thinks her son is on a new designer drug. Have you heard anything?_

               – _Actually, I have. I’ll e-mail you what I got._

               – _Thanks, I appreciate it!_

               Thank God for Trish Talk.

               Matt was directing his senses away from Karen. Out of respect, he had made a personal vow to stay out of her business. He crouched over his desk, which now had a map of midtown Manhattan spread over it. He was placing marks on areas where he recalled encountering men who emitted the same bodily symptoms as the guy from the night before. He triangulated the locations of criminal activity and narrowed the search down to somewhere between 34th and 36th Streets. He wetted his lips and nodded subtly to himself.

               “…so I went home, turned off the lights, and spent the rest of the day curled up with Tylenol and _Grey’s Anatomy_.” Foggy was explaining to a distracted Karen how he had to cut a deposition short the day before because of a migraine.

               Matt raised his head. “I'm sure Mr. Garner was sympathetic. Who doesn't love getting deposed multiple times because their lawyer had a boo-boo?”

               “Whatever. I'm on his side, and I'm basically pro bono, so he can deal. I need my brain in tip-top shape to do what I do. Anyway, you should sympathize with me, Mr. Gunshot-Wound-To-The-Head.”

               Karen snapped her head up from her phone. “Wait. What?”

               “Right, because a headache is the same as a concussion.”

               “Guys, what are you–”

               “ _Migraine_ ,” Foggy corrected. Matt snorted and Foggy shook his head. “Man, am I glad that that Castle shit is behind us.”

               “ _Frank shot you in the head?!_ ”

               Foggy gave a “shh” motion and glanced nervously at the closed door. Karen ignored him, her jaw dropped. She gaped at Matt, who was reviewing locations on the map again.

               Foggy stood and began organizing the papers on his desk. He pointed at the map. “Take off the metaphorical black pajamas, partner. Our client’s going to be here any minute.”

               Their new client, a man named Hari Chopra, was issuing a complaint against his employer, whose representation was a wealthy and locally famous attorney named Larry Cranston.

               Matt folded up the map and groaned. “Not the Cranston case.”

               “The _Chopra_ case,” Foggy corrected. “Just because you hate Cranston doesn’t mean you get to name the case after him. It’s not about him.”

               “No, of course not. We’re only arguing against that asshole.”

               Karen cocked her head. “Personal history with the guy?”

               “He went to Columbia with us,” Foggy said. “He’s not the easiest person to be around, but Matt’s exaggerating about him being an asshole. In fact, I’d say that along the ‘hole’ spectrum, Larry’s more of a jackhole.”

               “Hey, Karen, you know how I’m always going to church and stuff?”

               “Yeah…?”

               “Well, the whole time, I’ve been praying to _never_ have to see that–“

               “–jackhole _–_ ” Foggy interjected.

               “ _–_ ever again.”

               The phone on Foggy’s desk rang. He glanced at Karen.

               She slapped her desk and swiveled her chair to face him. “I’m _not_ your secretary!”

               “It was involuntary! Sorry!” Foggy sat down and picked up the phone. “Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law, temporarily based out of Nelson’s Meats, best cold cuts in town, you better believe meat. This is Franklin Nelson. How may I be of service? …Oh, hi, Mr. Chopra! …Yes, of course. That won’t be a problem. We’ll be right here! …Okay. See you soon.” Foggy hung up. “He’s gonna be a bit late.”

               Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on their door. Foggy answered it and welcomed Hari Chopra into the office, shaking his hand.

               “Ji aaya nu, Mr. Chopra! Tussi kiwen ho?”

               Mr. Chopra grinned. “Main theek haan. Zukria!”

               Foggy looked over at Matt and Karen’s dumbfounded faces. “What? I told you learning Punjabi would be useful.”

               The avocados spent the rest of the morning with their client, laying out the talking points for the upcoming trial. Just before lunch, Karen received an e-mail from Trish with the subject: “I’m awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you happen to speak Punjabi, don’t begrudge my Google Translate dialogue.


	3. Hallways

               Karen checked the time on her phone. It had been half an hour since anyone entered or left the three-story riverside building on 35th Street. The streets and alleys in the area remained dark and silent. Her hair was hidden beneath a beanie, and a shawl was wrapped around most of her face. She took a deep breath and pocketed her phone. Time to see if Trish’s intel checked out.

               She got out of her car, which she’d parked a block away, and casually walked toward an alley on the side of the building, clutching her gun in her pocket. She found a metal door and tugged on it. Locked.

               “Stupid,” she whispered. “What did I expect, an ‘open’ sign in neon lights?” Now that she was here, she realized how foolish she’d been to not plan this out better. She looked around hopelessly, sighed, and began walking back to her car. She paused. A putrid odor not unlike ammonia was leaking from somewhere. She followed her nose toward the back of the building; the odor led her to a tiny basement window about a foot above the ground that was cracked open for ventilation. She crouched to her knees and peered inside.

               Vats of chemicals were boiling in a dimly-lit kitchen. She studied the room carefully, checking every nook and cranny for people or hazards. Several minutes passed before she was convinced that no one was inside. She stood up, checked the alley one more time for good measure, and then opened the window fully and squeezed inside.

               Karen dropped down to a counter and scurried into a dark corner, pulling out her phone and starting a video. Private investigators aren’t exempt from trespassing laws; she knew that she was skating on very thin ice here, but if she could get in and out without being caught, then she could study this footage later and hopefully find something that could help her solve the mystery of Tyler Park’s disappearance. She crept around the room, filming everything in sight, and then stuck the phone’s camera lens just past the open doorframe and checked the screen. The hall was empty. Her search for clues continued in the next room, a large closet full of cleaning supplies.

               She was about to leave the storage closet when the sound of voices traveled up the hallway. She ducked behind the open door, held her breath, and positioned the camera lens in the crack to capture a view of the men’s faces as they passed.

               “…sick of that cheesy shit. I always feel, like, greasy.”

               “No one’s forcin’ you to eat it, man.”

               “I know, but it’s always right there. It’s convenient, ya know?”

               “I guess.”

               The two men passed the closet and stopped talking, but Karen heard the sound of their footsteps fade down the hall and disappear. She resumed breathing, stopped the recording, and pocketed her phone. After a couple of silent minutes, she emerged from the closet.

               Her face hit the floor.

               Someone grabbed both of her feet and started dragging her down the hall. Her head throbbed and spun, and she fumbled with her jacket. _Which pocket had the gun? So hard to… think…_

               “Just kill the bitch! Get it over with!”

               Karen’s vision cleared just in time to see a heavyset man standing over her and cocking a pistol pointed directly at her face. Suddenly, a black masked figure dropped from a loose ceiling tile and grabbed the man’s hand with a roped fist. He jerked it upward, sending the gun flying through the air, and twisted the man’s wrist and forearm. A cracking sound pierced the air.

               “AAAGH!” The enforcer clutched his arm. The masked man chopped him in the neck, cutting off the scream, and beat him to the ground.

Karen slid herself backward and flattened up against the wall.

               Another enforcer was there: a short, bearded man with piercings on his lips and eyebrow. Daredevil had already analyzed him and was getting to work. He kicked the first man’s gun backward so that it slid down the hall. The bearded man drew a knife and lunged toward the vigilante. Several quick moves between the two of them passed, almost too quick for the eye to register, before the knife twirled upward and was caught by Daredevil. He thrusted it into the man’s shoulder and slammed his head into the wall three times, knocking him unconscious. The heavyset man was coughing and staggering down the hall toward the gun that lay several yards away. Daredevil walked over and caught up with him as he was bending down to grab the gun with his remaining good hand. He casually pressed his thick boot down on the hand. The enforcer cried out in pain and looked up at Daredevil, who picked up the gun, took it apart, tossed the pieces aside, and kicked the man in the face, knocking him out cold.

               Karen stood, adjusted her beanie and shawl, and watched Daredevil drag the two bodies into the storage closet. He grabbed some duct tape off of a shelf, tied the men up, taped their mouths, and shut the door. He turned to her, adjusted the ropes on his hands, and murmured, “What are you doing here?”

               “What are _you_ doing here?”

               “I asked first.” Matt dropped his arms and Karen laughed with a sharp exhale and rolled her eyes at the juvenile exchange. She said nothing. After a pause, Matt spoke again. “Never mind. We’ll talk about this later.” He walked down the twisting hallways and Karen followed; every once in a while, she had to jog a bit to keep up with the vigilante as he powered forward and turned corners without any hesitation. They went up a set of stairs and into a long, dark hallway on the ground floor. Matt walked past a shut door, but Karen stopped.

               “There might be something in here,” she said.

               Matt turned halfway toward her. “There’s not.”

               Karen ignored him and opened the door. Just a water heater. Matt was already nearing the end of the hall. She ran to catch up, hoping that he couldn’t detect her embarrassment. As soon as he turned the corner, he stopped in his tracks. Karen almost collided into him. He ran his fingertips over the wall to the right for a few seconds. “There’s a stronger electric current here.”

               “Huh. Can you find where it leads?”

               Matt was quiet for a moment, his hand resting on the wall. “Yeah. This way.” He resumed his march, sliding one hand along the wall the whole time. They passed two doors that he ignored. He stopped in front of the third and opened it.

               The room was dimly lit by a computer screen on a metallic desk. There was a rolling chair, a filing cabinet, a tattered couch, and another door at the back of the room. Karen hurriedly opened the drawers of the filing cabinet, but they were empty save for some dividers. She then went to the computer and attempted to log on to it. Matt went straight to the door at the back. It was a closet. He checked the shelves inside, finding nothing of significance.

               “I can’t access this computer, Matt,” Karen said. “I’ll have to take the hard drive and get my tech guy at the _Bulletin_ to crack it. …Matt?” She walked over to the open closet. Matt was crouching in front of a black safe with one hand’s fingertips resting on the door and the other hand slowly turning the combination lock. He had one ear turned toward the safe. Once he cracked it, he briefly rummaged inside.

               “Just cash.” He shut the safe, stood, placed his hands on his hips, and sighed.

               Karen scratched her head. “Well, maybe we can get something off this computer that’ll give some insight on whatever they’re cooking downstairs.” She went back to the desk, turned on her phone’s flashlight, and began dismantling the hard drive.

               “Hope it’s not just… porn…” she said absentmindedly as she unplugged the computer.

               “Stop. Get in the closet. Someone’s coming.”

               “ _Shhhit_.” Karen turned off her phone light and hurried into the closet with Matt. He shut the door and they stood in silence, listening to the approaching footsteps.

               Matt reached out with his senses. Male, 6’2”, mid-30s, recently ate some Tex-Mex (Qdoba? No… Chipotle). He had a slight limp. Injured left knee. In his pockets were a wallet, some lip balm, a bottle of pills, and a G17. The man reached the room and stopped in the doorway. His heart picked up slightly and he reached for his gun. Damn. The computer. Karen had unplugged it. Matt placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her down. She dropped to the floor and crouched behind the safe as Matt slowly picked up a stapler from one of the shelves. The enforcer snuck to the corner opposite the closet. Facing the door, he raised the gun and cocked it.

               The masked man burst from the closet, rolled forward on the ground, and ducked under the desk. The enforcer opened fire. Luckily, he was a clumsy shot. He hit just about everything in the room except for Daredevil. The vigilante rolled back out from the desk toward the direction he came from, throwing the criminal off just long enough to give him a chance to hurl the stapler straight at his face. His head jerked back along with his gun, and his shot hit the ceiling. Daredevil jumped up, cleared the distance between them, grabbed the gun, headbutted him, and pummeled his bad knee.

               “CHRIST!” The enforcer curled up on the floor and stared up at the masked man.

               Daredevil crouched down and punched him repeatedly in the face. He was knocked out after five hits, but Matt stopped after ten. The ropes on his fists were stained with the man’s blood. He remained crouched over the body, breathing hungrily.

               Karen emerged from the closet, walked to Matt, placed her hand on his back, and stared at the enforcer with disgust. His nose was broken and leaking blood, he had two black eyes, and one of his cheekbones was fractured. His left knee was bent in an awkward angle.

               Matt stood and faced her. “Sorry about your evidence.”

               “Huh?” Karen looked around. The computer and hard drive were destroyed. She sighed. “Well, maybe there’s another office, and we can–”

               “There’s not. The only electricity in this building was powering the HVAC system, the lights, the lab, and this computer. I didn’t sense anything else.”

               “Nothing on the second or third floors?”

               Matt angled his face upward. “Just empty rooms and storage.”

               Karen hung her head.

               “Look,” Matt continued, “there are more guys in this place, and they would’ve heard that noise. They’re being quiet, but–” He paused and listened. “Yeah. They’re on their way. We need to go. Now.” Matt unlocked the window, slid it open, and gestured for Karen to leave. He climbed out after her, and they walked along the side of the building toward the street.

               Suddenly, Matt grabbed Karen, pulled her toward him, and backed them away from the building. Another enforcer arrived from the sky. He had leapt from the roof toward them, missed, and hit the ground on both feet. A loud _C-CRACK_ echoed off the side of the building. He lay limp with bones protruding from his legs and blood pooling underneath.

               “Oh, my god! What the hell!” Karen gasped. She covered her mouth. Matt grabbed her free hand and pulled her along, continuing toward the street at a sprint this time. When they reached the front of the building, two bright lights hit them. They jumped out of the way as a pickup truck speeded toward them. They rolled behind a shrub, and the truck smashed into the building. Matt covered Karen’s back and neck and they curled up together until the sounds of the wreckage dissipated.

               “You okay?” Matt said.

               Karen nodded shakily and peered over the bush. The enforcer wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. She gasped. “Matt, what the hell’s going on?”

               A few minutes later, the investigator and vigilante sat together on a fire escape two blocks away. Karen took off her beanie and unwrapped the shawl from her face; Matt pulled his mask off and balled it up between his hands.

               “Alright,” he said, “A lot of weird shit just went down, so let’s review them in chronological order. First of all, why are you here?”

               “I’m here on business. Did you eavesdrop on me and my client? Or me and Trish?”

               “Your PI business?”

               “Yes, Matt. What other business would I be talking about?”

               “You thought it’d be a good idea to commit a b-and-e misdemeanor for your first case?”

               Karen sighed. _Great. Lawyer-Matt._ “I know it’s wrong, but there’re some seriously fishy things going on here, and I just figured if I could get in and out without being noticed, then maybe I could find my client’s son and _also_ expose this operation–”

               Matt hit his knee. “You went about it completely the wrong way and almost got yourself killed! _Then_ who would find your client’s son?”

               “Okay, _okay_! Point taken!” Karen studied the pattern of the bricks on the adjacent building for a minute so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

               “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to yourself. God, Karen.” They sat in silence with their heads lowered. Matt tossed his mask back-and-forth between his hands for a while before speaking again. “I didn’t listen in on your business. I was following my own lead.”

               Karen looked at him, cocking her head.

               He continued. “There’s something different about these guys. I’ve been encountering others like them in the Kitchen over the past few weeks.”

               “‘Different,’ as in, prone-to-killing-themselves-in-ridiculous-ways different?”

               “Yeah. Their physiological responses are unnatural. It’s as if they can’t feel fear. They feel anger and pain, sure, but… they’re never scared.”

               “And they’re reckless as hell.”

               “Right. There’s no self-preservation. A suicidal person should emit precursors. When taking their own life, the mind wants it but the body doesn’t. Epinephrine and cortisol rush through the system. The body shakes, the pupils dilate, the heart rate spikes. But not with these guys. They just kill themselves calmly.”

               “Weird. You also think it’s because of that cocktail they’re brewing in there?”

               Matt nodded and Karen picked her nails absently. “My client described her son behaving similarly before his disappearance.”

               “Did she lead you to that building?”

               “Uh, no, actually. Trish Walker did. I reached out to her after I met my client. She’s kind of the town gossip, so I figured she’d know something about this.”

               “Right. We’ll talk more about this later. It’s safe to go back to your car now.”

               “Okay.” Karen stood and brushed her pants. “Night, Matt.”

               “Night, Karen.” Matt stretched the mask back over his face.

 

* * *

 

               A black SUV pulled up at the building and three men got out. Two were stocky bodyguards for the third man, who was tall and wore a black sweatshirt with the hood over his head. His face was covered by a black mask with a white skull marking on it. The hooded and masked man glanced at the two dead bodies that had been lain together out front and then walked through the doors. A group of enforcers were waiting inside.

               “Is anything stolen?” The leader asked.

               “No, sir. The cash is still here,” one of the enforcers replied.

               “Anything damaged?”

               “Nothin’ important, sir. A couple ‘a morons snuck inside. A man and a woman. We think the guy might’a been that Devil freak. He beat up three guys, and another two died tryin’ ta stop him. It don’t matter. We scared ‘em off.”

               “But they know something. They found this place, didn’t they? Don’t you think that maybe they’ll find more of our buildings?”

               “Uh… Maybe…”

               The leader sighed. “Listen. All of you. This is a relatively small branch of the operation. We really only need three or four of you guys to be here at any one time, but I always staff twice as much we need. There were eight of you here to prevent this very thing from happening. _Eight_. But still, eight of you couldn’t stop two ‘morons.’”

               The enforcer glanced around for support from his comrades, but they were silent. “The Devil is good, sir. We tried, but–”

               The leader rolled his eyes and nodded to one of his bodyguards, who pulled out a gun and shot the enforcer in the heart. The man collapsed on the floor. The others, high on the drugs, were unperturbed. They gazed steadily at their boss.

               “Any other excuses? …Alright. Clean up this goddamn mess and _find them_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, you made it through the longest chapter. Almost as long as an uncut hallway fight scene.


	4. Cranston

               “Matt, c’mon! We’re gonna be late,” Foggy called from the front room of Nelson’s Meats.

               “Give me a minute,” Matt replied. He didn’t have much time. Karen had only just left and he was finally alone in the office. He pulled open one of her desk drawers and grabbed a small notepad from it. He meticulously ran his fingers over the pages, feeling the minutely raised ink lines. His vow to not eavesdrop on her went out the window once he had discovered what she was really up to.

               “Maaaaaatt,” Foggy cried.

               He felt the last line of notes. Bingo. He returned the notepad, grabbed his briefcase and cane, and followed Foggy out of the building. The avocados hailed a cab and made their way to the courthouse.

Mr. Chopra was waiting on the stairs outside when Foggy and Matt arrived. They stepped out of the cab, Matt grabbed Foggy’s elbow, and they approached.

               “Steps. Good afternoon, Mr. Chopra,” Foggy said, “I hope you weren’t waiting long. How’s the wife?” They climbed up the steps and reached their client, who was nervously adjusting his tie.

               “Not at all, Mr. Nelson. She’s well. She could not join us today. She’s working a double-sh–” He fell into a coughing fit. Foggy patted him on the shoulder. Mr. Chopra pulled a tissue from his pocket and covered his mouth. When the coughing ceased, Matt spoke.

               “Now, remember, Mr. Chopra. This is just the pre-trial conference. All that we’re going to do is make pre-trial motions, lay out some evidence, and talk settlement offers. If we don’t settle, it’ll go to trial and the judge will set a court date. You’ve already given us everything we need for this, so you shouldn’t have to say anything here today. Just leave it to us.”

               Their client nodded and the three men made their way inside, through security, and toward the courtroom. Outside the courtroom doors stood a tall, dark-haired, handsome man wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. He had his head lowered, texting someone. He looked up and stared at the two approaching lawyers.

               “Well, well, well,” he said, sticking his phone in his pocket. “If it isn’t Franklin Percy Nelson.”

               “Lawrence,” Foggy said, holding out his hand. Larry Cranston accepted the handshake. He was completely ignoring Matt, who was drumming his fingers along his cane in exasperation.

               Foggy stuck his free hand in his pocket and idly swayed his briefcase. “Haven’t seen you since Columbia. I mean, aside from all the billboard and TV ads. Seems like you’re doing pretty well for yourself.”

               “Ah, you know. As well as can be expected. But _you_! I mean, you guys made names for yourselves in _school_ , with the, you know, grades and stuff.” He threw a quick glance at Matt, who was scowling behind his glasses. Cranston continued. “Book smarts. You two.” He laughed and lightly tapped Foggy on the shoulder with his fist. “Well done.”

               Matt turned to Foggy and muttered something about the restroom. He handed his briefcase to his partner, unfolded his cane, and walked away, loudly smacking the ground.

               Moments later, they were situating themselves in the courtroom. Mr. Chopra glanced over at the defendant’s table, where Larry Cranston sat alone, then leaned toward his lawyers and muttered, “Where’s Mr. Mills?”

               “He must’ve waived his right to appear,” Matt replied.

              “He owns a lot of property in Manhattan,” Foggy said, “he probably receives half a dozen grievances from his own employees each week. He’s not going to waste personal time on litigation. He’ll expect us to settle.”

              The judge, Hon. Sandra Finch, entered the courtroom, sat down, and opened a file.

               “Let us commence with the pre-trial proceedings concerning the dispute filed by Mr. Hari Chopra against Mr. Grant T. Mills. Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”

               “We are, Your Honor.”

               “And the defense?”

               “Yes, Your Honor.”

               Hari Chopra and his wife moved from Pakistan to New York twenty years ago, and Mr. Chopra worked in the same chemical plant in Hell’s Kitchen ever since. Grant Mills owned the building and employed him and thousands of other low-income people in his factories, restaurants, retail stores, and other assorted businesses across the island. Mills was filthy-rich even by lower-Manhattan standards. He spent most of his time jet-setting around the world, leaving the day-to-day operation of his businesses to his small army of property managers, accountants, and lawyers.

               The pre-trial conference paused several times due to Mr. Chopra’s loud coughing fits. Cranston rolled his eyes each time. The coughs echoed around the courtroom, a pervasive reminder of why they were there. The plaintiff suffered from chronic pulmonary obstructive disease, which in turn caused both a respiratory tract infection and a pneumothorax in the last six months. The hospital bills were too much to handle, and his workers’ compensation claim was denied.

              The prosecution presented an overview of their evidence: safety data sheets of the factory’s chemicals, detailing their effects on the lungs, evidence of the comprehension of said sheets by the employees via training records, and brief explanations of chemical storage and handling practices and personal protective equipment. They presented records of Mr. Chopra’s flawless safety performance reviews over the past two decades. They followed up with a presentation of schematics of the factory, pointing out flaws in the building’s ventilation system, and then gave a brief overview of their client’s recent medical records.

              The defense presented ten years of OSHA and EPA inspection records of the factory, pointing out the perfect scores. He also asserted the company’s adherence to the Clean Air Act and other federally regulated laws. He then pulled up several city inspections concerning the poor air quality of the neighborhood in which Mr. Chopra lived.

              After the motions and evidence were presented, it was time for settlement offers. Matt leaned over to their client and lowered his voice. “We’re going to demand a high settlement, which you would be smart to stick with. If you settle now with the low amount that they’ll most likely offer, then your insurance company might refuse to pay your medical bills and you’d have to file a separate claim against them. Foggy and I want to avoid that added financial burden and headache for you. Of course, the final decision is yours, but we strongly suggest that you let this go to trial and trust that we’ll get you what you deserve.”

              Mr. Chopra nodded. “I trust you. You may speak for me.”

              “Thank you, sir.”

              The prosecution requested a settlement of $250,000 with three months of paid sick leave on FMLA. The defense rejected it and countered with an offer of $50,000 with one month of paid sick leave. Matt and Foggy denied the offer immediately. Neither party was willing to negotiate. Judge Finch stacked the papers on her podium and spoke.

              “It is apparent that no settlement can be reached. Do the prosecution or the defense have any additional motions that they’d like to make at this time?” The courtroom was silent. She continued. “Very well. There will be no arbitration. Due to the nature of this dispute, we will go directly to trial. Please submit any requests for additional pre-trial hearings to me by 5:00 PM tomorrow. A tentative trial date is set for Friday, April 26th at 10:00 AM. We are adjourned.”

              After everyone filed out of the courtroom, Mr. Chopra fell into a particularly rough coughing spell and excused himself to go to the restroom. Matt and Foggy huddled together in the lobby.

              “Did you see how many times that prick checked his phone during that?” Foggy said.

              “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t _see_ , obviously, but…”

              “I think at one point he was texting while the judge was talking directly to him.”

              Matt laughed. “He’s good at letting everyone know that he doesn’t give a shit.”

              “Maybe that’s his signature tactic. Show no fear or whatever. Anyway, don’t worry, buddy. We’ll have him quaking in those handmade designer loafers soon enough.”

               

* * *

               

               Joanne Park stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her face was gray, her hair was greasy, there were bags under her eyes, and her nose was rubbed raw from fighting a cold. Her back constantly ached and she always felt short of breath. But there was no time for recovery. She had just gotten home from work and only had half an hour before her next shift. She took a deep sigh, applied some concealer, and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Between work and the search for her son, she never had much time for self-care. On the way out, she grabbed her purse, flipped off the lights, and stopped in front of a framed photo of her, her late husband, and her son. Fingerprint smudges covered the glass over the latter two. She kissed the tips of her fingers, touched the smiling images of Mr. Park and Tyler, and whispered, “bogo shipeo.”

               The apartment was empty and silent. Daredevil crept down the fire escape and used a knife to pry open the window lock. These cheap, old buildings had laughable security. He climbed inside and paused to allow his senses to analyze everything. The son’s bedroom was straight ahead. It was fairly minimalist: a bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a closet. It was tidier than you might expect from a college student, though Mrs. Park may have had something to do with that. Matt ran his fingers slowly over the books on the shelf. A few textbooks and novels, a dictionary, and a Bible. Nothing was stashed inside any of them. The desk contained nothing of interest either. Matt sniffed and turned toward the closet. Something smelled like… pizza. He opened the closet and was hit with the smell. An average person would never have detected it, but to Matt, it was as if he had stuck his head inside a pizza oven. Karen’s notes indicated that this kid had no job. So either he _really_ loved pizza, or... Matt found nothing else in the closet, but he needed nothing else. Time to follow his nose.

               The vigilante jumped across the rooftops, making his way toward the lower part of Hell’s Kitchen. Karen’s notes said that the Park boy had spent much of his time there before his disappearance. He shook off the twinge of guilt he kept feeling for having eavesdropped on her work. The truth of the matter was that they needed each other. People’s lives were in danger, and neither one of them could solve this mystery alone. He stopped in his tracks at 38th Street and 10th Avenue and crouched down. This was it. The scent leaking from the pizzeria across the street matched the scent on the clothes exactly. He did some reconnaissance from the roof for an hour before heading home.

              That night, Matt sat at his kitchen table and researched the pizzeria some more on his laptop. It was a 24-hour joint. During his scouting, he hadn’t found any plausible means of getting inside undetected. So sneaking in as Daredevil was out of the question. He researched the owner of the building. Shit. Couldn’t go in as Matt Murdock either. He sat in silence for a moment before picking up his phone.

               “Hey, Matt. It’s kinda late. Something wrong?”

               “Hi, Karen. Um… Do you like New York-style pizza?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not a lawyer, so forgive me for any incorrect assumptions of how pre-trials work. I literally have no idea.


	5. Pepperonis

               Karen strolled down 10th Avenue in the late Friday afternoon. The sun hadn’t fully set, but the New York skyline blocked its rays from reaching any part of the sidewalks or streets. Everything was bathed in blue shadows. This was Karen’s favorite time of day. She found it peaceful. Her hair was pulled up in a cute French braid, and she wore glossy lipstick, a flannel shirt, and ripped jeans – her attempt at appearing slightly more like a girl in her early-20s. She was fiddling with a small Bluetooth earpiece crammed in her ear canal.

               “That’s a great look for you, by the way,” a voice said in her ear.

               “How the hell would you know?” She muttered.

               Matt grinned. He was leaning against a wall in a nearby alley, twirling his cane in one hand and holding his phone in the other.

               Karen neared Hell’s Pizza Kitchen. “Still don’t fully understand why I’m the one doing this. You didn’t need a sidekick to break into my client’s apartment behind my back.”

               “I told you. I couldn’t get confirmation of this place’s criminal involvement last night. I just need you to ask them some questions. Mr. Chopra’s opposition owns the place, so I can’t poke around there right now.”

               “That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”

               “Eh, not really. The guy owns businesses all over town. But still, I can’t take any risks. Don’t forget to pay in cash.”

               “Yeah, yeah. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

               “Sorry. Oh, and Karen?”

               “What?”

               “Get pepperonis.”

               She rolled her eyes, reached the door, and went inside.

               “What can I get ya?” The balding man behind the register asked in a heavy New Jersey accent.

               Karen ignored the question and instead asked in a higher-pitched tone of voice than normal: “Hi! Um, is Tyler Park here?”

               Matt snorted. Karen harnessed all her willpower to keep from yelling at him and gritted her teeth instead. The cashier’s heart rate had increased. He stared blankly at Karen. Behind him, a younger man who was shredding cheese stopped and turned around to observe the exchange.

               “We don’t know any Tyler Park.”

               “He’s lying,” Matt murmured.

               “Lady, are you gonna order sometin’?” The cashier asked.

               “Order something, but keep him talking.”

               “Um, sure. I’ll have a medium pepperoni-and-olives pizza, please.”

               “I don’t like olives,” Matt said.

               “Extra olives,” Karen added.

               The cashier rang up the order and took her cash. The younger man behind the counter started preparing her pizza. The cashier handed Karen her change; she dropped it in the tip jar with a smile. “Hey, are you guys hiring?”

               “No. We ain’t.” The cashier slipped to the back.

              Karen sighed.

               “It’s okay. Talk to the other guy.”

               She shuffled down the counter to the pizza maker, who glanced up and then back down again, concentrating on spreading tomato sauce on the pizza.

              “D’you know Tyler?”

              The man ignored her, but his breath changed and he blinked more frequently.

              “Yes, he does,” Matt said.

              The man sprinkled mozzarella on the pizza. Karen had an idea. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Hey, it’s not what you think. I’m not his girlfriend or anything. I actually have a score to settle with him.” She discreetly showed him her purse and lifted her gun enough for him to see the handle. He raised his eyebrows and stopped spreading pepperonis.

              “Last time I saw the prick, he shorted me several grams. Hopefully my pizza won’t be as disappointing.”

              The pizza maker grabbed more pepperonis and piled them on thicker. She laughed. “Thanks.”

              He scattered a generous amount of olives on top and slid the pizza into the oven. He gave her a nod and disappeared into the back.

              “That was risky,” Matt said.

              Karen sat at a nearby table and waited. Once the pizza was cooked, the young man returned from the back room with a box, slid the pizza inside, and handed it to her with a wink. Karen left and went to the pre-determined rendezvous point. Matt followed from a distance to ensure that no one from the pizzeria was tailing her. They met outside Josie’s Bar.

              “They clearly know something, but we still don’t have any proof that they’re directly tied to the drugs,” Matt said.

              “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Karen opened the pizza box and showed Matt the inside of the lid.

              “What am I not looking at?”

              “Proof.”

              They grinned and went inside the bar.

              “No outside food or drink,” Josie snarled while slicing discolored limes.

              Karen glanced at Matt, who laughed.

              “Don’t worry,” he said. “She won’t kick us out. Why don’t you sit down with that, and I’ll get us some drinks?”

              A couple minutes later, Matt sat next to Karen with two neat double-shots of whiskey and slid her a glass.

              “So, now we go to the address on the box,” Karen said, opening it and grabbing a slice.

              “No, we lay low for a while. We can’t move on that location for at least a week. If something goes down, we can’t let suspicion fall on you.”

              “A _week_? ...Ugh. Fine. But you can’t keep me from following other leads.”

              “Okay. Agreed.”

              They clinked their glasses together and Matt told her about the pre-trial hearing for the Chopra case while they consumed the pizza and drinks.

              “Another round?” Matt asked, standing and reaching for her glass.

              “Why not.” Karen smiled drunkenly. She combed her hair with her fingers and thought. About leaving Josie’s. In the rain. Holding hands. Getting to his place. Deep breathing. Heart beating. His finger sliding up her wet arm…

              “You okay?” Matt was standing by her again, holding two refilled glasses.

              “Ah! What! Me? Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m terrific. Give me that.” She took the glass from him and took a large swig. He gave her a puzzled look and sat back down. He listened to her heartbeat and covered his sly smile with his glass.

              Karen put down her drink and stared at it while rubbing the side of the glass with her thumb. “Can I ask you something?”

              Matt cocked his head.

              “Did Frank really… Did he really shoot you in the… _head_?” She gave him a sideways glance.

              Matt raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. He, um… We were fighting on the roof of the hospital while you got away with Grotto. He pulled out the gun before I could react. The bullet hit me here.” He pointed at a spot on his forehead. “I had my helmet on. It just gave me a concussion for a couple of days.” He shrugged and took a drink.

              Karen snorted. “Right. I remember. I thought you were on a bender.”

              “Which one worries you more?”

              She stared at him for a moment and then looked away again. “Dick,” she muttered, sipping her drink.

              Matt laughed. “Well, you don’t have to worry about Frank shooting me in the head anymore. We came to sort of an understanding.”

              “So he _did_ know you. Daredevil, I mean.”

              “Uh, yeah,” He straightened his back, scratched his arm, and cleared his throat. “We had a couple… debates.”

              “Hmm.”

              Matt was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on his glass. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “By the way, I know what happened with you when I was… dead,” he said. Karen didn’t react, so he continued. “You taunted a terrorist, got publicly involved in a Second Amendment debate, and were almost killed by a bomb.”

              “Yeah. And I stand by everything I said and did. Your point?”

              He smiled. “My point is: We both do risky shit and we’re both worried about each other. And that’s the way it’s always going to be.”

              “…Right.”

              “So let’s stop arguing about it.”

              “A lawyer asking not to argue? Now I _know_ you were shot in the head.”

              They laughed and polished off their drinks. Matt slid his fingers over the address on the pizza box, ripped it off, and gave the scrap of cardboard to Karen as they left Josie’s. Outside the bar, Matt grabbed her free hand. “Hey…”

              She glanced down at their hands and back up at his face.

              He flashed a quick, nervous smile at her. “See you Monday morning.”

              “…Yeah. See ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for this spy team-up one night when I was drunk-napping. Behold, the product of my drinking. I think it’s a fun concept. I should drink more often.


	6. Fear

               Matt couldn’t delay. Two nights later, he secretly scouted out the address on the pizza box. Crouched on the roof, he stretched out his senses. Whereas the previous building contained equipment storage and a small lab, this location was used more for sales and distribution. Neither building appeared to be the base of operations that Matt knew had to exist somewhere. For two hours, he waited and listened. At last, one of the dealers made a remark to a colleague about “dropping it off,” and the two climbed into a van. Matt’s ears locked on to the vehicle. Then, a couple other enforcers came outside, carrying a body in a trash bag. After the body was thrown in the back and the doors were shut, the driver took off. Matt dashed across the rooftops, jumping across building gaps to keep up with the moving van. After five blocks, it pulled to a stop behind what appeared to be an office building with large, outdoor storage containers behind it. Matt sat on the edge of an apartment building across the street to catch his breath. The enforcers dropped their cargo off in one of the storage containers. When the coast was clear, the vigilante approached, picked the lock, and stepped inside the loud, cold freezer.

               It was worse than Fisk’s collection of popsicles. He stood in the middle of the frozen graveyard and counted at least two dozen corpses, some propped against the walls and others stacked on shelves. He blinked away the tears that started to form under his mask before they could freeze in the bitter cold. He took a deep breath and regained his composure.

               Daredevil was experiencing one of the rare moments where it was inconvenient for him to be blind. His senses were numb from the cold, so it would take some time for him to analyze the bodies. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time. The subfreezing temperature was already affecting his trembling body, and someone could return at any moment. He needed help. He took a deep breath and pulled out his phone.

               “Hi, Matt.”

               “Karen. I, uh… I need…”

               “Is something wrong? What’s that sound?”

               “I’m in a… freezer. I’m sorry. I went to the address.”

               “The one on the pizza box? Goddamnit, Matt. I thought we were in this _together_!”

               “Listen, I don’t have time to argue with you. I need your help.”

               Karen was silent for a moment. She sighed. “What.”

               “One of these bodies might, um, might be Tyler… But I can’t tell. My senses are being inhibited by the cold.”

               “Wait, hang on. _Bodies?_ What the hell?”

               “I don’t have much time, Karen! Can you help me or not?”

               “ _Shit_ , Matt. Okay, yes. I can help you. Um… Can your phone make video-calls?”

               “I’ve never tried it, but yeah, I think so.”

               “Okay, I’ll video-call you.”

               A few seconds later, Matt’s masked face was on her screen.

               “Turn the phone away from your face… Oh my god. There are so many… Matt…”

               “I’ll start at one end and work my way down.”

               “Wipe your camera lens. It’s foggy from the cold… Alright, go ahead.”

               Matt ripped the bags off the heads of the corpses one by one, pointing his phone toward them and periodically wiping condensation off of the lens. Karen sat at her dining table, watching the grotesque scene from home. She covered her mouth and pushed her dinner plate away. She was halfway through her grilled cheese when Matt had called. He was at the eighth or ninth body when she perked up and peered closely at the screen.

               “Stop. What’s that?”

               “What’s what?”

               “Wipe the lens… Okay, that. On the next body. Show me the right hand.”

               Matt pointed his phone at the tattooed hand. Three parallel lines. Her heart skipped a beat. She rubbed one of her temples.

               “O-okay. Um…”

               Matt pulled his phone away and pointed it at his own face. “Karen? Are you okay?”

               “I’m fine. Just… I need to see. I need to… confirm.”

               Matt gave her a somber look, pointed the phone at the body’s head, and gently peeled the bag away.

               Karen set her phone on the table and stared at the ceiling. “Thanks, Matt. Be careful.”

 

* * *

 

              The office building shadowing the storage containers was buzzing with activity. Daredevil broke in and absorbed the stimuli around him. This was it. The bulk of the drug storage and distribution happened here. He jerked his head upward. Someone was shouting upstairs.

              “How hard can it be for you idiots to find that masked prick?! Set him up! Break into a jewelry store or rape some broad or something! I don’t care how you do it! Just _find him_ and bring me his fucking head!”

              “Yes, sir.” The enforcer left the office and was knocked unconscious.

              Daredevil stepped inside the room. “I’ll make it easy for you.”

              The leader stood up and laughed. “Son of a bitch.”

              The vigilante cocked his head at the sound of the man’s voice and breathed in his scent. It couldn’t be. _Larry Cranston?_ He waited for him to speak again to be certain.

              “You got some balls to waltz in here, I’ll give you that. Or maybe you’ve just had a taste of this?” Cranston waved a syringe and walked around to the front of the desk. “…No? Too bad. It’s gonna change the world, you know.”

              Daredevil scowled; Cranston stuck the syringe in his pocket and walked around to the front of his desk.

              “You know, some of the guys around here call me Mister Fear. It’s a dumb nickname, I know – well, maybe not as dumb as ‘Daredevil,’ but it’s definitely up there. It’s also inappropriate. I don’t sell fear. I sell courage. You probably think you have courage for coming here tonight. Well, you don’t. You’re _terrified_. This ‘hero’ charade thing you’ve got going on is just your way of hiding your fears. You play it safe: beat up a few guys, save some poor granny, call it a night. But you won’t take real risks. You’re afraid of unleashing your full potential. I’m not. Let me ask you something. Would you be here tonight, doing this, if you weren’t wearing a mask?”

              Daredevil nodded at his adversary’s covered face. “Would you?”

              Cranston laughed. “This is a tool of intimidation, my friend. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. You know, I–”

              “Shut up. Are we going to fight, or what?”

              “…No. We’re not.”

              Four enforcers walked into the room and stood between Daredevil and Mister Fear.

              “Sorry to disappoint.” Cranston strolled out of the office as the four men attacked Daredevil. By the time he was able to subdue them, his foe was gone. He started running down the hall after him.

               _BOOM!_ He was knocked off his feet and flung into a wall. He clutched his ears. The piercing ringing from the explosion was excruciating. He smelled burning flesh. The four men inside the office were dead, and several others nearby were also dead or dying. An intense fire raged on multiple floors. Coughing and staggering, Daredevil navigated his way out of the building. He carried an unconscious enforcer out and was turning to go back inside for more people when something hit the back of his head and he fell to the ground. His head swam. Before he could shake off the pain and regain control of his body, something poked his thigh. The needle jerked him back to reality and he lashed out. Cranston was running away. Daredevil pulled the needle from his leg and sat up. He didn’t receive the full dose but was beginning to feel the effects nonetheless.

               “ARRRRGHHHHH!!!” The Devil went into a frenzy. He jumped to his feet and sprinted after Cranston. After a couple of blocks, the drug lord disappeared. He spun around, disoriented, trying to get a lock back on him. He filtered out the other sounds so that he could focus only on his target. After a few seconds, he found him again: Cranston was on the other side of the street, running away. The delirious vigilante dashed forward, dodging the cars in his way. Once he reached the other side of the street, a pesky crowd of onlookers stood in his path.

               “Out of the way! _Goddamnit_ , I– said– MOVE!” He grabbed the closest person in his way, twisted their arm, and snapped it. Another foolish person got between them and tried to push them apart. Daredevil grabbed their hand, contorted it backward, struck them in the gut, and beat them both to the ground. As they lay there, he gave them several hard kicks for good measure, and then continued his chase.

               Daredevil caught up with Cranston in an alley. He panted as the effects of the drug began to fade. He regained some of his composure but was extremely dizzy. He doubled over and vomited.

              Mister Fear opened one of the back doors of the SUV and stepped up on the running board. Before climbing inside, he looked back at the stumbling vigilante, whose rope-bound fists were stained with innocent civilian blood. He laughed and shouted, “Now the ‘Daredevil’ name makes sense! Now you know what it’s like to take risks! To be a man without fear!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m more familiar with DC than Marvel comics, so I never read any Mister Fear storylines. However, when I researched him, the concept intrigued me. He seems like a reverse-Scarecrow. It was fun to write.


	7. Flowers

               The next morning, Foggy walked into the back room of Nelson’s Meats to find Matt already in his chair with his glasses on the desk and a dazed expression on his face.

               “Well, this is a first. What’re you doing here so early? …Matt?”

               Foggy waved his hand in front of his face.

               Matt perked up. “You know I’m blind, right?”

               “But it worked, didn’t it? C’mon, talk to me, buddy.”

               Matt said nothing. Foggy gave up and left him alone. Karen arrived ten minutes later, looking just as distracted.

               “You too, huh?” Foggy said.

               Karen set up her laptop. She couldn’t push the sight of Tyler’s body out of her mind. How was she going to break the news to his mother? She opened her Internet browser and the home page – _The New York Bulletin_ – popped up.

               “Oh my god.” She looked up from her laptop at Matt, whose head was lowered. “Matt, what the hell happened last night?”

               “What is it?” Foggy asked. He got up and read the title on Karen’s screen. His jaw dropped. They frowned and silently read the article.

 

> **“Devil on a Rampage: Black-Masked Man Assaults Civilians, Causes Near-Fatal Car Accident”**
> 
> By Steven Morahan
> 
> April 22, 2019
> 
> NEW YORK – Police responded to an incident that occurred at 11:00 PM last night, Sunday, April 21st, in Hell’s Kitchen. Witnesses report seeing a man in a black mask pursuing another unidentified male. The vigilante crossed 9th Avenue through heavy traffic, causing a collision between three vehicles. One driver and two passengers were rushed to Metropolitan General Hospital with severe, but non-life-threatening, injuries. The other two drivers were treated at the scene.
> 
> According to witnesses, after crossing the street, the masked man pursued his target through a group of bystanders and assaulted two males. They were treated at Metro-General for cuts, contusions, sprained joints, broken bones, and a concussion.
> 
> At this time, it is unclear if the vigilante in question was Daredevil (“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen”). However, due to the masked man’s description from eyewitness reports and video surveillance footage, the police have no other suspects at this time. If you have any information that could lead to the apprehension of this man, police urge you to call Precinct 15 at (555) 582-0344.

 

               Karen played the silent, blurry security footage of Daredevil pushing through a crowd, briefly stopping to beat on two men in his way. When the video ended, she and Foggy looked over at Matt, who still had his head lowered. He hadn’t moved.

               “Is it true?” Foggy said. “You hurt those people?”

               Karen glared at Foggy. “Tell us what happened, Matt.”

               Matt took a deep breath and raised his head. “I, uh… I found the guy behind the drugs.”

               “What drugs?” Foggy interjected.

               “ _Shh_. I’ll tell you later,” Karen said. “Go on, Matt.”

               “I found where the operation was based, and I confronted the guy in charge. There was an explosion. I tried to get people out of the fire, but he… shot me up with it.”

               “With the same drug?”

               “Yeah. A small dose. The effects didn’t last long, but… what I did when I was on it…” Matt dropped his head again and sobbed. “I didn’t– I didn’t save anyone else from the fire… I could’ve, but I didn’t. And it’s true. I hurt those innocent people. I couldn’t– couldn’t control myself…”

               Foggy frowned. “Matt… I’m so sorry…”

               Karen ran over and crouched down to hug him. “It wasn’t you. Do you hear me? It wasn’t you.”

               “You were acting under _duress_ ,” Foggy said. “Legally, the assaults weren’t your fault.”

               Karen pulled back.

               Matt rolled his eyes. “‘ _Legally_.’”

               “Come on, Matt. You know what I’m trying to say. What happened was clearly due to the other guy.”

               “Cranston.”

               “Excuse me?”

               Matt wiped his eyes, stretched his aching neck to the side, and winced. “It was, um, Larry Cranston. He’s behind the operation.”

               Foggy snorted. “Now’s not the time for jokes, buddy. Who was he, really?”

               Matt didn’t answer. Foggy’s smile slowly faded.

               “You gotta be shitting me.”

               “Wait, wait, wait. Why would a _lawyer_ be involved in this?” Karen asked.

               “A lawyer who’s already swimming in cash,” Foggy added.

               Matt shrugged. “Why would a lawyer be a vigilante?” He murmured.

               For a moment, no one spoke. Foggy shook his head. “Okay. You were right. Cranston is definitely an asshole. Columbia’s finest, huh?”

               Matt rubbed his eyes. Karen stood up and rested her hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.” He ignored her. “Maybe you should talk to your mom.”

               Matt stood and walked to the coffee maker. “I’m fine.”

               Karen sighed. Foggy shook his head and gave her a look as if to say: _It’s useless to argue with him._ Karen and Foggy sat at their respective desks in silence while Matt stood, motionless, by the brewing coffee pot. Once it was finished, he poured himself a hot mug and remained standing by the pot, his head still lowered.

               “Okay, look,” Foggy said, “let’s just concentrate on the trial. Can we at least do that? And let’s, you know, try to ignore the fact that the defendant is represented by an evil lunatic.”

               They worked quietly for the rest of the morning. At noon, Foggy tried to lighten the mood by suggesting that they grab lunch together at the Mexican place down the street.

               Matt gathered up his things and put on his glasses. “Actually, I’m gonna continue my trial prep from home,” he said.

               Foggy frowned.

               “Sorry, buddy,” Matt said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

               Outside the butcher shop, Karen caught up with him.

               “Hey. Listen to me. You’ve got this. You can beat him on _both_ fronts. We’ve got the edge: The police will be investigating that fire, _and_ we know who the guy in charge is. There’ll be plenty of time to confront him in the mask, but right now, Mr. Chopra needs Matt Murdock. So, save your client. Kick Cranston’s ass in that courtroom.”

               Matt nodded and walked away. Karen went back to work. She had her own preparations to make. Matt was going to win the battle, but she was going to win the war.

 

* * *

 

               Matt lied about going home. From Nelson’s Meats, he went straight to Clinton Church and found his mother watering flowers in the garden outside.

               “Matthew! So good to see you.”

               She put down the watering can and hugged him.

               “Hi, Mom. I was wondering if we could talk.”

               They sat on a concrete bench in the garden and Matt caught her up on recent events. When he finished, he dropped his head and trembled.

               “The truth is, I’m scared. Someone found a way to control me. I know that I was actually lucky last night, you know, considering what’s happened with the other victims of this damn drug. I know I could’ve done something a lot worse. But I still feel guilty for what I did. And I _should_. I deserve God’s wrath. I rushed headlong into danger without thinking of the consequences, and people died and innocent people were hurt. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to confront this guy again, because I might make things worse if I do.” He paused. “…What should I do?”

               Maggie twiddled her thumbs and pondered for a minute. “Do you remember 1 John 4:18?”

               Matt didn’t answer. She proceeded.

               “‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.’”

               “Meaning, we should live without fear of God’s judgment?”

               “Yes. Seek forgiveness when needed, of course, but don’t be paralyzed by your own guilt. Be confident that you have already earned God’s love, your neighbor’s love, and your self-love. It is that love that gives you courage. And salvation.”

               Matt left the church and wandered the streets aimlessly for an hour or so, tapping his cane as he went. The sounds of the city were giving him a headache, so he drowned them out and focused on the scents instead. Among the putrid odors of garbage, human waste, and smog, he picked up a tiny hint of succulence. Spring flowers. From sidewalk cracks, windowsills, and odd patches of grass, the flowers fought to survive. Despite the concretes and metals invading their soil, despite the smoke and chemicals that strangled them, they adapted. Matt stopped walking. He had somehow wandered to the apartment building of Joanne Park. He stood on the curb outside and listened. Karen was inside with her. She was hugging the childless widow, who sobbed on her shoulder. Matt clenched his fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No fan-fiction is complete without an on-the-nose metaphor, and no Daredevil story is complete without some Catholic guilt.


	8. Trial

               Later that week, Matt and Foggy were sitting with their client in the courtroom again; but this time, the spectator benches were full and a jury was present. Karen and Mrs. Chopra sat among the onlookers. Larry Cranston’s client, Grant Mills, was with him this time. Foggy avoided eye contact with the villainous defense as much as he could so that he wouldn’t be distracted by thoughts irrelevant to the trial. Matt, on the other hand, was unable to shake off the truth. Whenever Cranston spoke, he gritted his teeth and squeezed his knuckles until they turned white. At one point, he snapped a pencil and Foggy gave him a reprimanding kick.

               The trial proceeded at a decent pace. The avocados took turns presenting evidence of the antique building and its outdated ventilation system. Foggy then called one of the witnesses to the stand: Mike Goodman, the supervisor of the chemical plant.

               “How much lunch and break time is given to your full-time staff, Mr. Goodman?” Foggy asked.

               “Thirty minutes for lunch and break,” he replied.

               “Just thirty minutes. Lunch and break taken together.”

               “That’s right.”

               Foggy paused to let that fact sink in for the jury before continuing. “Did OSHA ever inspect the employees’ break room?”

               “No. The break room is used when staff are off the clock. It’s not relevant to inspections.”

               “Not relevant? Just one thirty-minute lunch is given to each full-time employee rather than the typical sixty-minute lunch and break granted by other businesses. It’s legal, but it’s the bare minimum, and it would go right out the window if your staff joined a union. Do you believe that _thirty minutes_ is enough time for someone to clock out, grab their belongings, leave the plant, buy and eat lunch at another location, and then return and clock back in to work?”

               “They don’t _have_ to go offsite.”

               “Okay, so that leaves two realistic dining options: Just outside, on the dirty street, or in the break room. Now, people usually prefer not to eat near rats, roaches, and piles of garbage, so your staff are essentially forced to eat lunch in that break room, which, as we’ve already established, shares the same HVAC system as the rest of the plant.”

               “Um…”

               “The _same_ ventilation system as the rest of the plant,” Foggy repeated. “A plant which requires personal protective equipment at _all_ times to guard against airborne contaminants. Have you ever tried to eat a sandwich with a mask covering your mouth, Mr. Goodman? I imagine it’d be difficult.”

               Karen smiled proudly from the benches.

               After the court returned from lunch, Cranston ushered in the next deliberation. He pulled some papers off of his table and held them up. “The jury will find two scientific journal articles in their packets: Steuben, Hauser, et al. (2009) and Patel and King (2015). Both of these recent research studies concluded that people from the Middle East, compared to other demographics, are more susceptible to environmental pollution and are also genetically pre-disposed to develop certain pulmonary diseases. Many of the heavily populated regions in Asia have severe air quality issues that certainly could have paid their toll on a man who didn’t move to the United States until his mid-20s. And, of course, ethnic genetic predispositions speak for themselves.”

               Matt leaned over to Foggy. “Did he really just go there?”

               “He went there,” Foggy grumbled.

               Mr. Chopra turned to his lawyers and said, “I grew up on a _farm_.”

               “Don’t worry, sir,” Foggy said, “we’ll handle it.”

               Three hours of hardball later, the jurors broke to discuss their verdict in the back. Matt took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and leaned back in his chair while Foggy gathered up the papers strewn all over their table.

               “You did well,” Mr. Chopra said, smiling.

               “Don’t thank us yet,” Matt replied.

               “Still–” He paused to cough. “What you have done for me is… words cannot say.”

               Foggy patted him on the back.

               Several minutes later, the jury returned with their verdict.

              

* * *

 

               Outside the courtroom, Foggy hugged Matt.

               “500 K, man! Nelson and Murdock is BACK!” Foggy said, punching the air.

               Matt laughed. “How was Larry Cranston’s face during that verdict reading?”

               “Oh, that prick’s smug face dropped to the _ground_! _Man_ , that felt good!”

               Karen showed up and patted their shoulders. “That was amazing, you guys! I wish I could write about it!”

               They paused their celebration as Grant Mills and Larry Cranston walked past, glaring at them. The two left the courthouse together. Matt cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows while listening to the commotion outside.

               “You guys might want to see this. I mean, Foggy, you’ll want to see it, and Matt, you’ll want to hear it,” Karen said nonchalantly, leading the way. When they stepped outside, Matt and Foggy froze and witnessed the spectacle in disbelief. Mills and Cranston were being arrested by FBI agents while a mob of shouting reporters surrounded them.

               “Karen! What did you do?” Foggy said.

               “Well, while you two were busy prepping for the trial, I uncovered more evidence of the drug trafficking operation. I sent a tip to the FBI, and I got Ellison to post the story in a special _Bulletin_ editorial. I didn’t even have to twist his arm. A famous New York City attorney being caught up in the latest designer drug made for a pretty juicy headline. Mills was also involved, naturally. He had his accountants launder money through businesses like Hell’s Pizza Kitchen, and he kept his shady activities under wraps thanks to some corrupt officials and inspectors. Cranston spearheaded the drug production and distribution and hired the enforcers. Anyway, I imagine they’re both going to be indicted under RICO…”

               Matt’s mouth hung open. “Karen… You’re _amazing_.”

               She grinned and blushed. “I’m just glad that justice will prevail for the Parks and other victims like them.”

               “The real victim here is _me_ ,” Foggy groaned, “Hell’s Pizza Kitchen was my reason for being.”

               Mr. Chopra came outside and joined them. He grabbed Foggy’s hand in both of his own and bowed his head. “Dhannvaad, Mr. Nelson.” He repeated the gesture with Matt. “Thank you, Mr. Murdock. Bless you both.” Mr. Chopra’s wife, standing several yards away, waved to him, beaming, and he went to kiss and talk with her. Karen and the avocados stood at the top of the steps and soaked in their victory. After a minute, Matt sighed and turned to Foggy. “Now that Mr. Chopra has some money, we should recommend an oncologist for him.”

               “Why?”

               “He has lung cancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept this chapter relatively short, because I didn’t want to slow the pace of the story too much with trial details. …Okay, and also because I’m not well-versed in the law. It’s damn difficult to act like I know what the hell I’m talking about.


	9. Secretary

****Karen knocked on Matt’s door and waited and listened. It must have been the hundredth time that she’d done that routine. The stairwell lights flickered. A spring thunderstorm raged outside in the night, but that evidently wouldn’t stop Daredevil. No sound came from inside the apartment, so she pulled the spare key out of her purse and let herself inside. Two weeks had passed since the Cranston fiasco, and everything was back to normal. She took off her boots and jacket, dropped her purse and some papers on the coffee table, sat on the couch with her legs curled up, and stared at the large, glowing windows. The billboard across the street lit the panes in brilliant hues of green and yellow. The colors leaked through and danced lazily around the living room. The effect had a soothing, melancholic charm. Karen closed her eyes, listening to the booming thunder and falling rain, and drifted into a light sleep.

               Matt entered his apartment from the rooftop door and slowly descended the stairs, leaving a trail of water. Fatigue was starting to hit him. Halfway down the steps, he slipped off his mask, stuck it in his pocket, and stopped. He had sensed that Karen was there from three blocks away, but he enjoyed being this close to her peaceful body, listening to her deep, steady breathing, smelling her hair, feeling her body heat. He continued his descent.

               The sound of his footsteps woke her. She jumped off the couch, brushed her hair to one side, and adjusted her skirt and blouse. “Sorry for barging in,” she said shakily.

               Matt approached and gave her a smile in a gesture of good will. Her humiliation was loud and clear. But there was also… zeal.

               “I, uh, wanted to personally bring you these documents.” Karen picked up a stack of braille papers from the coffee table and handed them to him. “I translated and printed them for you. They concern the lease for our new office.”

               “Thanks.” Matt flipped through the papers and periodically felt a few lines here and there.

               “Anyway,” Karen continued, “if you sign them tonight, I can send them to the property manager first thing in the morning. I'm tired of smelling like bacon.”

               Matt shut the papers. “I thought you weren’t our secretary anymore.”

               Karen crossed her arms and glared at him for a few seconds. A crack of thunder sounded outside. They slowly smiled, then snorted and laughed.

               Her smile soon faded. “Matt… You’re bleeding.”

               Blood was dripping down the Muay Thai ropes on his left arm to the floor. He hastily threw the papers on the coffee table before they could get stained and clutched his upper arm.

               “Sorry. Excuse me for a few minutes.” He grabbed a first aid kit off of a nearby shelf and went into the bathroom. Karen heard the shower running. She sat and stared at the windows again, clearing her head by concentrating on the lights and the sounds of the storm and shower.

               Once he was clean, Matt stepped out of the shower, dried off, taped some gauze tightly to the wound, and put on some boxer-briefs and sweatpants. He walked toward the kitchen, carrying the first aid kit and tousling his wet hair. He tried to ignore Karen; she was staring at his scars. He sat at the kitchen table and opened the kit.

               “What happened?” Karen got up and walked to him.

               “I was grazed,” he said indifferently. He ripped off the gauze and revealed the wound. Karen covered her mouth. Matt’s casual tone didn’t reflect the severity of it. The hole was deep and dark. Once the pressure from the gauze was released, blood pooled for a second and then flowed down his arm in a steady stream. Matt wiped the blood with more gauze and propped his arm on the back of his chair at a ninety-degree angle while fumbling in his kit for disinfecting wipes.

               “Here, let me help…” Karen grabbed some packages of wipes, ripped them open, and cleaned the wound. “Do you always patch yourself up?”

               “Depends if I’m conscious or not. Hehe. …Sorry.”

               She had given him a reproachful look. Once she finished wiping the wound, she kept some pressure on it while staring uneasily at the stitching materials.

               “I got it,” Matt said. He grabbed a needle, sterilized it with the lighter that he kept in the kit, and tied some suture thread to it.

               Karen sat at the table and watched him skillfully and blindly sew himself up. His ability to show so little discomfort mildly disturbed her. She tried not to think about him getting shot, stabbed, and crushed; but her curiosity quickly won out. Her eyes traveled over the scars on his chest.

               “How many scars do you have?”

               Matt angled his face toward hers and kept sewing. “Um… I’ve never counted them. They’re not something I’m proud of.”

               “Most people are proud of their scars.”

               “Yeah, well… Mine represent my failures. They remind me of the times when I could’ve done better, but instead, I had to recover here while people out there needed help.” He nodded toward the street.

               Karen didn’t respond. She dropped her gaze, and they were both quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “Want me to grab us some drinks?”

               “That’d be great, thanks.” Matt smiled. He finished stitching, tied the thread, wiped the area clean, and went to put on a shirt before returning to the living room. Karen was sitting on the couch with her legs curled up again, holding two beers. He sat next to her and took a bottle.

               “There was another gunshot, here,” Matt pointed to a spot below his left clavicle. “The bullet was able to pierce the suit, but it didn’t get very deep. You were there for that one.”

               “I remember. That night was kind of–” she paused and sneered. “–confusing.”

               Matt lowered his bottle and furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

               “Well, I mean, there was a room full of, like, twenty hostages. There were a few good-looking women there, but I was the only one that you cut loose and seductively comforted.”

               “I did _not_ –” Matt started. Karen was grinning at him and snickering over her bottle. It was contagious. He shook his head and started laughing too. “I was _not_ being ‘seductive.’ I was just seeing if you were okay!”

               “You were rubbing my face! It was seductive! I went home that night, _very_ confused!” They doubled over laughing.

               Matt snorted, lifted his bottle to his lips, and shrugged. “Well, I guess it was a _little_ seductive…”

               Karen bit her lip and smirked at him. “So, what are the other scars from?”

               Matt set his beer on the coffee table, rested his arm on the back of the couch, and pointed to his chest with his other hand. “A lot of them are from Midland Circle. The long cuts across my chest and back were given to me by a guy named Nobu. He sliced me up pretty bad. He was the, uh, ‘hit-and-run’ a couple years ago. The others are various wounds from knives and arrows. And, um… office supplies.”

               Karen put her bottle down. “I see why you don’t like hospitals. Guess it’d be hard for you to get health insurance.”

               He laughed. “Yeah, health insurance. Of course.”

               “Sorry for the game of Twenty Questions, Matt. I just… I wanna know you.”

               She lowered her eyes, embarrassed for her moment of candor. Matt leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. He pulled back. “Sorry.”

               “Why?”

               They sat together, frozen and silent, for what seemed like an eternity as those last two words hung in the air between them. The rain picked up outside and started coming down in sheets. Then, Karen flung himself forward and Matt bridged the gap. Their lips met in a passionate kiss. Matt’s left hand slid up Karen’s back to the back of her head, and he combed his fingers in her hair. His other hand squeezed her thigh. Karen’s hands cupped Matt’s face. She gently scratched his stubble with her nails. They gasped for air at the same time, pressing their foreheads together. Karen reached down and started pulling up Matt’s shirt. He helped get it over his head and then unbuttoned her blouse.

               The billboard lights switched to a dark blue hue and rippled over the couch and its two entwining occupants. Fully stripped and breathing heavily, they moved as one entity in a steady rhythm. Matt was drunk on the sounds and vibrations of their hearts, beating in a beautiful duet. A blinding light blazed in the windows as a loud _CRACK_ perforated the air all around them. They jumped at the sound, clutched each other, and giggled. The power went out on the block, and a rare moment of complete darkness shrouded Matt’s living room. Matt tickled Karen’s back, and she nuzzled his chest with her face, her head rising and falling with his breaths.

               “I love you,” he whispered.

               “I love you.”

               They drifted into a deep sleep together in the black night.

 

* * *

 

               Matt and Karen held hands and stood with Foggy on the sidewalk, facing the building of their new office.

               “Um… Foggy?” Matt said.

               “Yeah?”

               “You picked this place, didn’t you?”

               “What makes you say that?”

               “It’s above a butcher shop.”

               “Hey, hey. It’s above a _deli_. I’d never support a rival business. This place gets its meat from Nelson’s, so it’ll be beneficial to all parties. Gotta look out for the fam, y’know.”

               “Right…”

               Karen shifted the purse strap on her shoulder. “So let’s see it, then.”

               “Yes,” Matt replied. “But first, a pit stop.”

               The three went into the deli first and ordered sandwiches and chips. Upstairs in their new office, they sat in a circle on the floor and soaked in their successes and promising futures. Nelson, Murdock, and Page was officially open for business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wondered how much detail I should’ve gone into with the sexy-time and ultimately decided on describing as much as what I assume the show would’ve portrayed. Too bad we won’t know for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> That’s all she wrote! I hope you liked it. #SaveDaredevil


End file.
